THERE is a fold where none can stray,
And pastures ever green,
Where sultry sun, or stormy day,
Or night, are never seen.
Far up the everlasting hills,
In God’s own light it lies,
His smile its vast dimension fills
With joy that never dies.
There is a Shepherd living there,
The first-born from the dead,
Who tends, with sweet, unwearied care,
The flock for which he bled.
There, the deep streams of joy that flow,
Proceed from God’s right hand;
He made them, and he bids them go
To feed that happy land.
There congregate the sons of light,
Fair as the morning sky,
And taste of infinite delight,
Beneath their Savior’s eye.
Where’er he turns, they willing turn;
In unity they move;
Their seraph spirits nobly burn
In harmony of love.
There, in the power of heavenly sight,
They gaze upon the throne,
And scan perfection’s utmost height,
And know as they are known.
Their joy bursts forth in strains of love,
And clear, symphonious song,
And all the azure heights above
The echoes roll along.
O may our faith take up that sound,
Though toiling here below;
‘Midst trial may our joys abound,
And songs amid our woe;
Until we reach that happy shore,
And join to swell their strain,
And from our God go out no more,
And never weep again.